Empty Words, Empty Faces
by Faulty Paragon
Summary: Slight AU. He first met her upon the bridge, the air still but the wind brisk and sweat streaming down his face as he pulled her off the edge of a railing. It's hard finding something to live for when nothing seems to recognize that they, in fact, exist, and they deserve that just as much as everyone else. Then again, they aren't most people. TwelvexLisa


A/N: Originally another old fic in a poetry format, altered now for these two.

A slight AU in which Twelve meets Lisa for the first time not by the pool or in the targeted building, but on a bridge after Sphinx's first attack, and she decides to take the first step to escaping her destructive mother on her own. I always felt that Twelve did too much of the comforting, and that Lisa was more than capable of reaching out for his hand – she just never got the chance, since their meeting was such a whirlwind of activity. Let's just say that Sphinx had longer time gaps between their targets. RxR.

* * *

**Empty Words, Empty Faces**

Empty words and empty faces – these phrases described them both so well, for that was all they were.

He had met her by the river, the sun long gone behind the horizon, so full of potential and nothingness, and the waters nothing but a pool of darkness. He had met her standing upon the bridge, on the edge of the railing, lanky arms tentatively wide open and tears free flowing, cascading down her cheeks with such abandon that he couldn't help but to envy her for a moment until he realized just how lifeless was her expression. The wind was brisk, flinging her raggedly cut hair behind her, the colour unidentifiable in the darkness and the unearthly stillness of the night – but it wasn't still, not with the ripples in the water below, not with the trees in the distance stirring, not with his legs trembling from exertion and heart racing faster than it ever had before.

It wasn't an unmoving night, as she changed the air and held one foot off of the railing.

He made it in time. He sighed in relief. She cried, and recoiled from his touch – it was foreign, and she wanted no part of it. No part of _him. _

His shirt was wet by the next morning, but he didn't mind – nor did he mind the twenty-two (_make that twenty-three) _text messages he was getting from his partner-in-crime-brother-companion_ (Nine was everything to him) _on every one of the phones he carried at the time. Nothing mattered other than warming this girl up, holding her tight until her cheeks were flush against his chest and his heart was beating with a rhythm so erratic he wondered whether he should call a doctor.

He didn't call a doctor in the end. She fell asleep against his chest eventually, and he was able to let out a gentle sigh, sitting upon that stool in the convenience store they had taken shelter within. And when her cries and tears turned into deep, evened breaths, his heartbeat calmed as well and eventually he felt at peace again.

He kept ignoring the text messages. (_set on silent, they are easier to forget)_

His latest car was a cranky old beater, dented in more sides than not (_stolen from the next city but no one would search for it) _with the black paint peeling pathetically. She raised an eyebrow, confusion and bewilderment in her eyes as he opened a door and let her in. "Does this even work?" she asked, feeling the smooth harness of the seatbelt clip shoddily within the clasp to her left. He chuckled, patted her hair.

"I'd rather have a bike-"(_bikes give freedom and movement and air and _life) "-but yes, it works," and so he began to drive.

It coughed once, twice, and then they were gone.

There was no destination in mind. "I'll take you where you want to go," he murmured, and she scoffed at the idea that he would actually do what she wanted (_no one did what she wanted) _but she let the vehicle shake and shudder underneath her, the beat-up cushions uncomfortable yet comfortable at the same time, a paradox just like her. Like him.

The radio was on. It belted music of all kinds, then it hit the news of Sphinx. He winced, smiled, said a joke, and turned it off.

She didn't comment.

It smelled like him. She said so. He laughed, but inside he hoped it didn't bother her. As she leaned heavily upon his shoulder, however, he knew she didn't mind.

He did not know her name, what she liked, what she didn't like. He never asked. Maybe it was better that way. He didn't exactly have a name to introduce himself with anyway.

The sun rose, a dismally faded cream behind the layers of cloud which smothered the world, stopped it from breathing in _life. _"How long will we be here?" It was hard to reply, because he knew what she meant, in that they were driving but remaining static, and nothing was improving no matter how much distance they put between her and her problems.

Her hair was a dark chestnut brown, shorn in a hurry with pieces falling in front of her eyes and attacking the nape of her neck in such a disarray that his fingers itched to settle them. His was a faded hazel, the warm strands catching the sun's pathetic rays and swallowing them up in the strangely dark roots visible at his crown. But he didn't know what her eyes were like, not with her gaze constantly resting upon the endless horizon (_it was greying out even further, he hated winter) _and never at the person she was driving with.

They didn't stop very often. He was a celebrity, he said (_lied)_, and he didn't want to start a scandal by being caught with a girl (_innocent bystander)_. She didn't mind, more content with staring out of the window at a world which seemed to be moving far too fast for her eyes to catch up with.

Finally, they stopped for food. A burger and fries were eaten by each person in silence underneath cheap lighting as foreign music blasting from speakers, drowning out their thoughts until she murmured, "I'm Lisa." He nodded, and for the first time since they had met, she smiled and look him in the eye. (_she had beautiful eyes, now that there was sunlight through the window and no tears)_

It made him warm, fulfilled.

When he asked her why she was there, she didn't really reply. "There's nothing left for me," was the vague response, and her despondent gaze and soulless eyes were enough to make him realize that maybe there were things that he shouldn't interfere with, because they weren't any of his business. Maybe if she felt like telling him in the future, then he'd find out about her emptiness eventually. But until then, it wasn't his place to ask.

She didn't ask much of his own life, but he found himself speaking to her anyway. His likes, his dislikes (_bombs were his favourite but he didn't mention those)_– his role in his famous duo (_slightly twisted) _as a runner-doer-_victim _(_this was his dream, his greatest joy, biggest sorrow, last regret, his everything); _it all spilled out, but nothing was real, not really. Maybe she sensed it. He knew it for sure – after all, Nine was the only real thing in his world. Nine, and their plot to avenge all the fallen children, all the sadness and pain and suffering and damned _apathy _they had known as children at the hands of a government who denied them happiness. But he never said anything about his heart, his Nine.

She never commented.

It was a long, long talk, and after a while Twelve felt like it had been nothing but an interrogation and she was a researcher, waiting for him to make another mistake. Another slipup, another 10 years leaving them in a state of disarray and his own soul left to wallow in nothing but shame and misery for he had to suffer for something they hadn't even done wrong. (_they weren't supposed to exist but they were not their own makers, all they wanted was to breathe clear and free and save those who couldn't)_

Eventually, the words ran out, and he finished filling the silence the best he could with a choked sigh. Fingers settled upon the grooves upon the steering wheel, a plump bottom lip finding its way between dainty teeth. The silence was back and more stifling than before.

The engine sputtered once, twice (_he'd learned to ignore it but she was bothered by it) _and the highway stretched on and on, the sun continuing to rise and set and still they weren't moving - not inside.

He checked his phone. None of the messages were replied to, although all of them were read. (_all 147 of them but he wasn't counting)_

At last, the engine groaned for a final time before the wheels rolled to a hesitant stop upon the gravel siding of the highway. The pair sighed, but made no move to stand up. The air was too muggy for winter, the sun beating down upon their tiny metal cage from behind the clouds and scorching them from the inside out. It was far more comfortable to simply allow the heat to lull them into dreamless slumber.

"You're not satisfied with your dream."

The words were out of the blue, like lightning on a clear day – he hadn't said anything ill about his job to her, nothing of the trauma which still haunted Nine, nothing of the international investigations which were being filed at the moment, nothing of the perpetual fear which lingered in all their hearts to the point that he didn't want to see any human ever again if that meant that he didn't have to bear witness to their suffering.

He wasn't happy. It was true. "How would you know?"

The answer was meandering, feet propped up in nothing but formerly white socks (_she hadn't been wearing shoes when he found her, he recalled) _upon a dusty black dashboard. Eyes drifted outside to the right, taking in the vast drops off of the edge of the mountainside they were so close to within the safety of that rundown beater. Yet, a hand found his own on the steering wheel, fingers wrapping around his simply in a gesture of comfort.

"Your eyes are bad at lying."

"I'm not lying."

She laughed outright. (_That was a lie.)_

He had spent too long saying he was fine, saying that he was living out his dream and that there was nowhere else he would rather be, but it wasn't true – not with the nightmares and the stress and the weight loss and the disappointment from the only person who ever supported him. He looked at the frail, dirty hand which held his in both reverence and awe, but said nothing. Nothing needed to be said, if she could see past his false pretenses anyways.

She carefully unlocked their fingers and undid her seatbelt, shifting her tiny frame in order to lay her head down upon his lap. He made no move to push her away – he simply moved her wavy locks out of her face as she stared back up at him, a small smile on her face for the first time, truly looking at _him, _a strange creature, yet able to understand his soul so perfectly.

No words were said. He kissed her. She didn't know his name (_or lack thereof)._ She responded gently, telling him that it was okay to let emotions take over, because _hell_ they had nothing to look forwards to anyways. She was just as scared as he, more so, trembling and gasping but trying all the same, desperate for some validation that she had never had before.

Four sunsets passed in total since the start of their journey and somehow, they found themselves upon the bridge once more, having been towed back. (_he had spent all the money in his pocket on the tow truck, they had had no choice but to return to her past) _And he didn't know whether to laugh and cry at the irony of it all because the company's building and garage had been near the river, and now it was night, the water an endless pool of darkness waiting to swallow her up and take her away forever and his legs were burning from the exertion as he pulled her off of the railing.

"Stay with me. Don't jump. Stay with me. _Become an accomplice._"

She didn't disagree, nor did she agree.

All she did was mumble, ask for his name, a feeble little cry - the sound of childish sorrow - before wrapping exhausted arms around his neck and burying her face into his collar. He breathed in deep, smelling the scent of her and the scent of him, and he realized how nice they melted in with each other. She always seemed to fit in his arms perfectly. And as they wandered back to a hotel to spend the night before figuring out how to stay together and how to give her something to live for he realized that he wouldn't mind having her scent linger around him for the rest of his life. (_he'd never admit that though, it sounded strange)_

She was warm in his arms that night. It was innocent and he enjoyed feeling her breath upon his chest and her scent mingling with his and he felt safe and happy and for once he didn't have to put up a front that everything was okay and that he'd figure it out, because she wasn't expecting him to figure it out - she was expecting him to do his best and that was all that mattered.

He had learned her name, and she had opened her heart for the first time.

His phone was turned on again (_he had given up on reading the messages) _and he replied to them all, and sighed apologies-sorrows-thanksfortheconcern and a promise that he'd be back the next day with a new addition to the family so Nine should clear a room because Twelve was broke and couldn't afford a hotel.

She laughed and cried when she read that reply, and suddenly, she didn't need the sunlight nor did it matter whether she cried to make her eyes look beautiful. (_and the sun rose and only made her look even more wonderful, lying in his arms, and for once her face didn't seem so damn empty)_


End file.
